A Brief Poetic Interlude, Via Stephen Vincent Benet

There wasn't any real change, it was just a heat spell,A rain spell, a funny summer, a weather-man's joke,In spite of the geraniums three feet highIn the tin-can gardens of Hester and Desbrosses.New York was New York. It couldn't turn inside out.When they got the news from Woods Hole about the Gulf Stream,The Times ran a adequate story.But nobody reads those stories but science-cranks.

Until, one day, a somnolent city-editorGave a new cub the termite yarn to break his teeth on.The cub was just down from Vermont, so he took his time.He was serious about it. He went around.He read all about termites in the Public LibraryAnd it made him sore when they fired him.

So, one evening,Talking with an old watchman, beside the firstRaw girders of the new Planetopolis Building(Ten thousand brine-cooled offices, each with shower)He saw a dark line creeping across the rubbleAnd turned a flashlight on it.

"Say, buddy," he said,"You'd better look out for those ants. They eat wood, you know,They'll have your shack down in no time."

So beautifully written, too. Even without the reference to Heywood Broun, you'd know exactly when it was written, wouldn't you? This fits so beautifully with the piece I'm writing, too. How did you burrow into my head?

I love that crack about the terribly clever Macy's ad, on the Widow's Termite. NICE.

" There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen."

Ross Thomas called it "bread-knife weather" in "Briarpatch" - the first thing a housewife in extremis reaches for.

I will refrain from commenting on the weather at the present, it wouldn't be therapeutic for those not in Dago. Altho as a former desert rat, I sympathize with the heat afflicted, and more so with those on the sweaty end of the scale. Hope a cool breeze wafts its way soon, with a cold French 75 on the balcony table.

About Me

"If you live in France, for instance, and you have written one good book, or painted one good picture, or directed one outstanding film fifty years ago and nothing else since, you are still recognized and honored accordingly. People take their hats off to you and call you 'maître.' They do not forget. In Hollywood—in Hollywood, you're as good as your last picture."